Ourhouse…with the purple door.
***
“Hey, brother, can I have a minute?”
“Sure,” Spike says. “I was wanting to talk to you anyway.”
“The prisoners?” I guess.
Maverick had Clinton and Martello shipped to us after everything settled. We’ve had them since then, getting answers to questions about their little business ventures. We still have their snipers, as well. Although none of them are in great condition, they’re all still alive.
Spike nods once. “We’ve had them for two months now. I’m sending them up to Maverick tomorrow. We beat our frustrations out on them long enough. Now it’s the Italian’s turn.”
“Brother,” I start, but Spike holds up a hand.
“I’ve already talked to Maverick. It’s done,” he says firmly. “The twins will be here in the morning to collect them. Maverick needs them alive more than we want them dead. He’s got an image to uphold as the Don, and we’re not getting in the way… or between… that.”
He pauses, watching my reaction.
“However,” he adds, “we agreed to let you keep your pet.”
My fists slowly unclench.
“Fuck,” I breathe out. “Thought I was gonna have to sneak down there and kill him before morning.”
Spike snorts.
“No way in hell are we letting the bastard who shot my baby sister have even the smallest taste of freedom,” he says. “Not even the kind that comes from being moved from one prison to another.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“That one stays here.”
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“Good,” I mutter. “I really didn’t want to kill him.”
Because the man who put a bullet in Abigail will remain alive for a very long time.
“Might want to let Patch patch him up and give him a week or so to heal before you start on him again. The twins also wanted me to relay the message that their prisoner just spent his ninety-seventh day in their chambers for what they did to Abigail. They’ve taken out the trash.” Spike smirks. “Now… what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
My reason for coming here crashes back into my head, and every thought of the prisoners disappears.
“I know I’ve been an idiot when it comes to Abigail,” I admit.
“Fact,” he nods.
Fucker.
“But you know how much I love her,” I continue. “How much I’ve always loved her.”
“I do.”
I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans.
Spike straightens a little, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Out with it, brother,” he says.
